The books were exactly that. Terribly smutty and awfully put together and not in a realm how anything actually worked. Not John's proudest moments, but the cult following of his ridiculous books paid the bills because royalties. He churned out awful smut, and it sold like crazy. That was something John was a fan of.
"I'm painfully aware because," St. John reaffirmed his point. "That's my book," He made a face. "Not mine mine, but mine in the sense that I wrote that book precise book." Now with a circle back. "Where did you get it?" Because he would like to remove it's existence from reality sooner than later.